Survive The Fall | Book 4 | Total Collapse

the floor. Sarah’s gaze flitted to the ceiling. She removed her hand from her mouth, then brought the Glock to bear. She remained silent, not voicing a single syllable for fear of who might be lurking upstairs.
Her back slid down the edge of the countertop to the end. She glanced at the hallway on the far side of the kitchen, then back to the living room. The walls closed in around her. The images of the men hunting her passed through her mind, increasing her anxiety.
The stock of the shotgun slapped the slate.
Sarah stepped away from the counter, killing the unwanted noise. She peered to the countertop on the far side of the kitchen near the wall she passed, and spotted a set of keys dangling from a hook.
A door slammed upstairs.
Sarah flinched, rushed past the kitchen island, and swiped the keys hanging from the hook. Fear pushed her to leave the home. Sarah kept the Glock trained ahead, skirting the blind corner in a fit of panic.
She rushed through the living room, past the staircase and empty landing at the top of the stairs toward the open patio door. The duty bag slapped her hip with every step she took. The shotgun bounced off her back and slipped down her shoulder.
The stock slammed the corner of the door. The sound echoed through the house. She kept moving at a steady clip.
Sarah jumped to the patio, bypassing the few steps. She thumbed through the keys while on the run, unable to find the one that went to the Chevelle.
Please run. Please run.
Her stride widened across the yard. She peered over her shoulder at the patio, then back at the car. The pain in her ankle flared, making her wince. She stopped at the covered vehicle, grabbed the tarp, and pulled it away.
The bright-blue paint job and white racing stripes filled her gaze. Her trembling hand thumbed through the few keys again. She unlocked the door on the second key she tried, swung it open, and crammed her gear into the passenger seat.
An angry voice boomed from the open patio door. Sarah glanced at the back of the house, panicked. She slipped inside the muscle car. The tan leather seats stretched. The aged smell of the vehicle teased her nose.
Mr. Johnson materialized on the patio. His chest heaved as he looked her way. His clothes were painted in blood, face contorted in a manic rage. The knife clutched in his hand pointed at the car. He lurched across the patio and ran toward her.
Oh, Christ.
“Oh my God. Are you okay, Mr. Johnson?” Sarah asked, standing up out of the car. “You scared the crap out of me.”
He paused, then grabbed his arm. His face distorted in pain–teeth gnashed as he shook his head. He looked at Sarah with malevolent eyes and offered no response.
“Mr. Johnson. Where’s your wife at? Did someone attack you?”
He remained silent, inching his way toward the car. The bloody knife remained fixed between his crimson stained fingers with a tight hold. “Please drop the knife. It’s me. Sarah. ”Mr. Johnson rushed across the yard and over the driveway. He looked like a crazed killer from the lost look lingering in his squinted eyes and clenched jaw.
A wave of fear took hold of Sarah, sending her back inside the safety of the car. She slammed the door, thumbed the lock on the door, and shoved the key into the ignition.
Sarah turned the key. The engine grumbled, then roared to life. Mr. Johnson reached for the handle and pulled. He pounded his fist against the window. The glass shuddered under each hard rap. The blade flashed before Sarah, making her leery of opening the door.
“Please, Mr. Johnson. Settle down and drop the knife. It’s me, Sarah.”
A lost look filled his eyes. She noticed a gash on the side of his head as if he’d been hit with something.
“Get the hell out of there, now.” The grumbling of the engine dulled his voice. He continued hammering the glass and pointing at her with large, wild eyes that looked lost. Sarah had to leave. He was too unhinged, and she didn’t know what he’d do next.
She glanced at the steering wheel, then the four-speed stick shift on the floor. She hadn’t driven a standard in ages and hoped she could work it.
Her foot pressed the clutch, then shifted into drive. She punched the gas. The car lurched forward, then stalled.
Mr. Johnson continued tugging on the handle, fighting to open the door. He stared at Sarah as if he had never laid eyes on her before. The handle of the knife clattered off the glass, then scraped down to the bottom of the window.
Sarah started the car, trying to focus on the task at hand and not Mr. Johnson. She pressed the clutch back in, worked the stick shift, and hit the gas.
The Chevelle lunged forward, throwing her head back against the head rest.
Mr. Johnson ran alongside the car, hammering the window with his fist and trying to keep pace.
Sarah tore down the long stretch of driveway that snaked through the open land toward the main highway. She glanced to the sideview mirror, watching Mr. Johnson stop, then point the tip of the knife at the car.
The Chevelle took the sharp turn at full tilt. Sarah kept her foot mashed to the floorboard. The back end went wide into the grass, digging into the earth. The tires slung chunks of dirt out from under its tread.
Her gaze shifted from the road ahead back out of the window toward the house. Mr. Johnson had vanished from the driveway, leaving Sarah to wonder where he had gone to.
She jerked the steering wheel, trying to bring the muscle car under submission. It swerved from side to side. The tires dipped into the